Angel at Risk

by Leann Harris

  He glanced down at his shirt and then at her. “Is something wrong? I know I look like I’m coming off a four-day drunk, but at least I have a shirt on. It’s an improvement over last night, yes?”

  She smiled and lifted her shoulder.

  He walked across the room and set a brown grocery sack on the bed by her feet. “I had more important things on my mind last night, like making sure you were okay, to be worried by my dress or lack thereof. As I told you, after your guardian angel woke me I grabbed my jeans and ran.”

  Yes, she knew. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the paper sack.

  “M’dame Eleanor showed up on my front porch this morning, a pile of clothes in her arms that she collected for you. She refused to say where she got them, but I have my suspicions.” He took the items from the bag and set them on the bed. “Here’s a skirt and blouse,” he said, holding them up. “And something for, uh—underneath.” He pointed to the remaining items. “And sandals.”

  Angie nearly burst out laughing at his avoidance of the underwear. Well, who would have thought so sensuous a man would be embarrassed by a lady’s unmentionables?

  She picked up the blouse, noting the delicate scalloped edging of the collar. It reminded her of a similar blouse she’d found in Marianna’s closet.

  “Is there anything left of Marianna’s house?” she softly asked.

  His expression hardened. “No. It was gutted before the fire department could get there.”

  It was like learning of Marianna’s death all over again. She bit her bottom lip, trying to keep her composure. “All her letters...pictures...were in the house.”

  He sat on the bed and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, chère. The most important thing is you’re all right.” He pulled back and studied her face. Gently, he smoothed a tendril of hair from her cheek, but inadvertently he grazed the bump above her ear.

  She tried to bite back the moan.

  “Let me look,” he softly commanded. As he inspected the injury, he mumbled a threat under his breath. He quickly got himself under control and cupped her cheek. “Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll leave?”

  “Okay.”

  When she didn’t pick up the clothes, Jean-Paul frowned. “Don’t you like them?”

  “They’re fine. I’m waiting for you to leave so I can get dressed.”

  “Oh.”

  Angie grinned to herself as she changed, recalling the comical expression on his face. As soon as she had finished, the doctor came in and examined her and signed her release papers.

  The morning air was still cool and felt wonderful on her skin as they drove back to Mirabeau.

  “I’d like to stop by and thank Miss Eleanor for the lovely clothes.”

  “She was glad to help. But I think it would be best if you just called her. M’dame Eleanor speaks her mind, but there’s no reason to bring her grief.” He glanced at her. “Do you understand what I’m saying, chère?”

  Oh, yes, she understood, and it made her sick. “You mean whoever did this to me wouldn’t hesitate to take out their displeasure on her.”

  “You got it. The scum we’re dealing with have no problems hurting little, old ladies. There’s a better class of folk in the state prison than these guys.”

  That assessment of their enemy was foremost in Angie’s mind when they pulled into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. Jean-Paul caught her arm before she got out.

  “If you get tired, say the word and we’ll leave.”

  “But what if the sheriff’s not done questioning me?” she asked, worried that Jean-Paul would get himself in more trouble than he had last night.

  “If Dennis doesn’t like it, he can go jump in the bayou. You’re not the suspect, and he has no right to hold you.”

  “Jean-Paul—”

  He ran his hand down her arm and clasped her fingers. “Believe me, chère. Even if I’m not practicing law right now, I know the limits of the sheriff’s authority. I won’t let him step across them.”

  She placed her finger over his mouth, silencing him. “I’ll be all right. Now, let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  The next hour was torture for Angie. Dennis and Jean- Paul acted like two wolves circling, each waiting for an opening to lunge in and wound the other. But true to his word, the moment her energy began to wane, Jean-Paul stood up, helped her to her feet and escorted Angie to his car. His parting words to Dennis were rather crude.

  “Couldn’t he arrest you for that?” Angie asked, glancing over her shoulder, through the rear truck window, to see the fuming sheriff standing outside his office.

  He shrugged. “He could try, only I’d demand a jury trial, and everyone in this parish agrees with my evaluation of Dennis’s character. So I’d be acquitted, and he knows it.”

  His statement was so outrageous that she could only gape at him. And then, from deep inside, a laugh bubbled up.

  Hearing her, his grin grew more mischievous. “You think I’m teasing, hein? I swear to you that Dennis couldn’t find twelve people in this parish who would convict me.”

  Angie shook her head. She didn’t know how the man could slip past all her natural reserve and make her laugh at the strangest things. Of course, since she’d met Jean-Paul, she had experienced so many intense and varied emotions that she no longer recognized who she was. And although he was not responsible for the situation, he had touched things in her that until now had lain dormant.

  Love.

  That wasn’t it, she told herself. But then again, how did she know what love was? The last time she’d thought she was in love, she’d been taken for a fool.

  So what did she know of love?

  She stole a peek at Jean-Paul. She sensed that he felt something for her, but what if she was wrong? The last time, she’d barely survived the humiliation and shame when she discovered her fiancé had swindled her out of ten thousand dollars and skipped town.

  What she felt for Jean-Paul was stronger, deep, richer than anything she’d felt for Richard. If she was wrong this time, she wouldn’t survive.

  * * *

  Jean-Paul recognized the beige Cadillac parked in front of his house as belonging to Guy Boudreaux.

  “Dammit—” Jean-Paul swallowed the rest of the descriptive phrase. “Why can’t they just stay away?”

  He shut off the engine and looked around for Guy, before getting out and coming around the front of the truck to help Angeline out.

  They had just climbed the steps, when Guy appeared from around the side of the house.

  “Hello,” he quietly greeted them.

  Jean-Paul slid his arm around Angeline’s shoulder. “Are you sober this time, Guy?”

  The older man flushed and dropped his gaze to the ground.

  Angeline elbowed Jean-Paul. He glanced down, surprised at her action. The militant set of her jaw warned him against further rudeness.

  “Why are you here, Guy?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “I came here hoping to talk to Angeline. Will you talk to me, child?”

  “Yes.”

  Jean-Paul unlocked the door and motioned the others inside. He followed, then sprawled beside Angeline on the couch. Guy sat stiffly in the rocker. He looked uncomfortable and lost.

  “I don’t know quite where to begin.”

  “Start with why you’re here,” Jean-Paul shot back.

  Angeline sighed. “Please, let him talk.”

  Her plea on behalf of a Boudreaux irritated Jean-Paul. How could she even consider listening to the tripe that Guy would spew out? Didn’t she understand about the Boudreaux men?

  The older man smiled at Angeline. “Thank you, chère.”

  Jean-Paul nearly came off the couch and threw the old coot out of his house. How dare he call Angeline chère? So what if the term was used loosely by everyone in these parts as a substitute for everything from “you” to “sweetheart.” Hearing a Boudreaux say chère to Angeline chafed.

  “I came today for
several reasons. First, to apologize for showing up the other night drunk. And for my wife’s behavior. She is rather overprotective of me.”

  “She watches you like a hawk because you’re a sot,” Jean-Paul grumbled under his breath. Angeline must have heard, because her elbow found its way into his side again. He frowned at her.

  “Why did you come to see me the other night?” Angeline asked.

  “For the same reason I’m here today. To explain.” He stopped and again he seemed lost, unable to find the right words.

  “To explain what?” Angeline prompted.

  “About Marianna and me.”

  That brought Jean-Paul up straight. “What?”

  Guy looked distinctly uneasy.

  “You’re my father?” Angeline asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Relief flooded Guy’s face. “Yes.”

  Jean-Paul felt the fine trembling in Angeline’s body. Glancing at her, he saw her bite down hard on her lower lip.

  “But I never knew about you until yesterday morning when you walked into the courtroom,” Guy hastily added.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Jean-Paul snapped.

  “Stop it.” Angeline’s command rang through the room. “Please allow him to explain what happened.” Her voice softened and her eyes pleaded with him.

  Jean-Paul crossed his arms over his chest and settled back. After a long moment of silence, he motioned for Guy to continue.

  “I had just finished law school and come home to Mirabeau. That summer Marianna and I fell in love. But we kept it a secret because I knew my father wouldn’t approve. We planned to get married after I passed my bar exam.” He paused, lost in some memory.

  “When I came back from New Orleans after taking the bar, my engagement to Catlin had been announced in every newspaper in the state and an engagement party was scheduled for that night. Marianna was gone and no one knew where she was. I tried to find her, but...”

  He reached out his hand, then let it drop. “I know it sounds like I could’ve done more. That’s true.”

  Jean-Paul started to comment, but one glance at Angeline told him the only thing he’d accomplish was to further alienate her.

  “When Marianna finally returned to Mirabeau, I was already married to Catlin. I went to her and asked her why she’d left. She told me never to seek her out again. That I was married and she would never involve herself with a married man. She never spoke to me again.” He shrugged, and at that moment he looked much older than his fifty-some years. “I occasionally saw her in town. We would exchange glances, nothing more.”

  Guy stood. “I never stopped loving Marianna, Angeline. I did my duty to my family, but I could never give my heart.”

  Jean-Paul had had enough of this drivel. What Guy had failed to mention to Angeline was that he’d married Catlin for her family’s power in this state, and for the past thirty years he’d drowned his sorrow in the best Kentucky mash that money could buy.

  “What do you want from Angeline?” Jean-Paul baldly asked.

  Guy shook his head. “Nothing. I only wanted to explain. Maybe ask her forgiveness.”

  Jean-Paul shot up to his feet. “Oh, please, Guy. You see an embarrassing situation here and you’re doing damage control. You don’t want anything to interfere with your drive to the governor’s mansion.”

  “Jean-Paul,” Angeline admonished, standing. A small cry of distress escaped her lips and she staggered sideways into him. Jean-Paul’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm before she could fall.

  “You got up too fast, chère. Sit.” He gently pushed her down onto the cushions.

  She slapped his hands away. “I know why I stumbled.”

  Her outraged reaction puzzled him.

  “You’re being rude, Jean-Paul.”

  “What?”

  Her chin came up. “Your evaluation of my father’s motivation for coming here is very insulting.”

  “Yeah. And it’s also true, Angeline. Believe me, I’ve lived with the Boudreaux family all my life and I know their patterns.”

  Clearly uncomfortable with the drift of the conversation, Guy coughed. “I didn’t mean to come here and stir up trouble. I hope, Angeline, that you’ll think about what I said.” He took her hand and kissed it.

  Jean-Paul choked. Angeline threw him a glare.

  “I’d like to see you again,” Angeline told her father.

  “Yes, I want that, too. You’re a beautiful woman and your parents must be very proud of you. You give them reason. I know Marianna would have been proud.”

  She followed Guy outside and waved goodbye to him before turning to Jean-Paul. “You were unforgivably rude to him. He came here to explain what happened and ask my forgiveness.”

  “No, that’s not why he came. His father sent him because Roger wants to make sure you don’t make any waves and ruin Guy’s chances at the governorship.”

  “Perhaps your past is coloring your judgment in this case.”

  Jean-Paul wanted to put his fist through the wall. From the expression on her beautiful face, she was buying Guy’s line. “Maybe I can see what’s behind his pretty words.”

  She gasped.

  “You know, Jean-Paul, you can’t see anything beyond that chip on your shoulder.” She turned her back on him and walked into the house.

  Jean-Paul ground his teeth. Angeline hadn’t seen through the little gutless wonder’s lies. And, sadly, neither had Marianna.

  Chapter 12

  Angie paced the living room, livid with Jean-Paul. How dare he? How dare he imply her father’s only motive in coming to see her was damage control?

  She stopped and glanced out the window. The object of her wrath sat under a large magnolia tree, his elbows resting on his up-drawn knees. Despite the fact he’d acted like a boor, Angie felt a flare of attraction. She shoved the feeling aside, in no mood to listen to her body’s signals.

  Jean-Paul’s obnoxious behavior toward her father was rude and inexcusable. Guy had obviously come to tell her about himself and her mother, and to imply anything else, as Jean-Paul had, was outrageous. She didn’t know how she felt about what her father had told her, but she knew Jean-Paul shouldn’t have behaved like a heathen.

  Over the past few days Jean-Paul had proved himself to be a reasonable and clever man. And very perceptive. But in this instance, why was he so far off base?

  Or was he?

  Angie shook her head. It was obvious Jean-Paul’s feelings toward the Boudreaux family were colored, which might explain his misinterpretation of Guy’s motives.

  Angie walked into the kitchen and looked at the clock over the stove. Three-thirty. Giving her statement to the sheriff had taken longer than expected. That meant she had only an hour and a half to get to the historical society and start searching for whatever Marianna had been working on.

  She refused to ask Jean-Paul to take her. And since her rental car was at Marianna’s and had probably been trashed by the fire, that left only one option—Jock and his taxi.

  After she called, Angie realized she had one tiny, little problem. Her cash had burned along with her clothes. She hoped Jock would take an IOU.

  * * *

  Jean-Paul rested his head against the trunk of the magnolia and glared at the house. What was the matter with Angeline, not to see Guy Boudreaux for what he really was? Why, even the story he’d told Angeline pointed out how spineless he was. Guy should have stood up to his father and told him he loved Marianna and was going to marry her. Instead, Guy had buckled under, married Attila the Hun in skirts and drunk his way through the past thirty years.

  Jean-Paul ran his fingers through his hair. But would Angeline believe him, hein? If she spent any time with Guy, she’d discover his true nature. But if Jean-Paul continued to oppose Guy, it would drive Angeline closer to her father—and probably closer to danger.

  The sound of a car coming down his drive drew Jean-Paul’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jock’s old Chevrolet station wagon.


  “Hallo, Jean-Paul,” Jock called out as he rolled to a stop.

  Jean-Paul stood. “Jock, what are you doing here?”

  Jock’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why, the little northern lady called and said she wanted to go to the historical society, would I come and pick her up? Mais sho’, I told her. I figured you were at Pierre’s working. She never mentioned you.”

  Jean-Paul grinned. So his angel was so mad at him that she wouldn’t ask him to take her? His attitude toward Guy really must have made her mad.

  Perhaps it was time for him to apologize.

  “Me, I was surprised when she called.” Jock clicked his tongue several time. “I heard what happened last night. It was the talk of the diner today, with everyone guessin’ what happened. We all thought she’d be in the hospital today for sure. I’m glad she be fine.”

  “You’re not the only one, Jock.”

  Jock winked. “I understand how it is. This Angeline Fitzgerald is a mighty fine-looking woman, yes?”

  “Yes.” Jean-Paul rested his arms on the open window. “I’ll be honest with you, Jock. Angeline is a little stubborn, and I made her very angry. So she called you to drive her.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “So, if you don’t mind, I’ll take her over to the historical society.”

  “I understand, Jean-Paul. But you must understand that I need the money she will pay me. Nothing personal,” Jock added.

  Jean-Paul shrugged. “All of Angeline’s things were burned in the fire, including her wallet.”

  Jock stared at Jean-Paul. “You’re pullin’ my leg, yes?”

  “Ask her yourself.”

  At that moment Angeline emerged from the house onto the porch. She looked like a lost angel fallen from heaven. The usual peach color of her cheeks was gone and the strain of the past twenty-four hours showed in her eyes. She looked as if one strong gust of wind off the bayou would sweep her away.